


i'm only human

by sky_blue_hightops



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Family Feels, Fever, Gen, Human Disaster Endeavour Morse, Hurt Endeavour Morse, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Fred Thursday, Sickfic, The Thursdays adopt Morse, Whump, what's that tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 23:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21089867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_blue_hightops/pseuds/sky_blue_hightops
Summary: Morse tries working while sick, unsuccessfully.





	i'm only human

It was a rather nice day, actually. Just barely sunny, birds chirping, not a cloud in sight. Morse winced against the sunshine, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the pounding in his head. He'd just pull down the blinds near his desk and work on paperwork all day. It'd be fine.

The walk up to the Thursdays' door seemed so...long. Undoable. He could barely imagine finding the energy to open the car door and swing his legs out, let alone make that trek. But remaining outside with the car idling would just tip Thursday off that something was out of the ordinary. No, best to go inside.

Didn't make it any more bearable, though.

Morse cracked open the door, just remembering to flick the keys in the ignition before he stumbled out onto the pavement. Everything seemed much louder and brighter when he was out from under the protection of the car's roof. The throbbing in his head increased, and he couldn't tell if the white spots in his vision were because of the sunlight or the pain. He regretted not downing some old painkillers he’d had around his flat while he could’ve.

When he got to the doorstep, he couldn't remember much of the walk up, but shook it off to knock firmly on the door. He stifled a cough in the wait for someone to let him in, his breath rattling in his chest as a sore reminder of all the hours of sleep he'd lost last night from coughing. Sam opened the door, ushering Morse inside without a spare thought as per always, already darting off to look for his other shoe. "Morse's here!" he called out, ducking into the sitting room, and that was that.

Morse squinted at the floor, not liking the way it felt like it was shifting slowly under him. He took a careful step directly into the wall, staggering lightly in shock before just...remaining leaning against it. He shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed his legs. That looked casual enough, surely. Mrs. Thursday poked her head out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Morse, dear, I just took off the kettle. Why don't you sit for a moment, have some tea-"

"It's alright, Mrs. Thursday," Morse replied quickly. "I'm not staying long." His voice only rasped once, at the end of his sentence. He supposed that was about as good as he was going to get.

She shot him a concerned glance but didn't press. "Alright, but... here." She pressed a wrapped sandwich into his hands. "Don't you skip lunch, alright? You're not but a twig."

He ignored the way his stomach turned at the thought of food. "Thank you," he said honestly. Finally DI Thursday jogged down the stairs, reaching for his coat and his wife at the same time and inadvertently saving Morse from any more maternal advances.

"Alright, Morse? Let's go." And then they were out the door, and in the car, and Morse's full attention shifted to the job at hand.

***

An hour of filling out forms had him wanting to rip his head off. That'd stop the headache, too. He sighed, grinding the palms of his hands into his eyes. Around him, the sharp noises of the nick just made everything worse. A small mercy was the blinds shut out a great majority of the light, giving him a shaded corner of the station in which to take refuge….and fill out forms. He sighed again.

"Me too, matey." Morse looked up, blinking his eyes back into focus. "Paperwork. It's a necessary evil." Strange glanced over from his desk, expression shifting from half-amused to half-concerned. "You alright there?"

"Fine," Morse bit out. Why was it so bloody cold? He suppressed a shiver. Maybe there was a window open somewhere. But that wouldn't make much sense, would it? It was late spring. Perfect weather. Unrelenting sunshine. "D'you reckon you could take this to Thursday for me? Forgot something in the car."

Strange accepted the typed report, shuffling it into a stack with a couple of his own. "No problem."

"Thanks," Morse said after him, then unfolded himself from his desk chair, all lanky limbs with just the barest hint of grace. Strange watched him go, before stepping into Thursday's office.

"Some reports, sir." He set them on an unoccupied corner of Thursday's desk, then lingered. Morse had looked something pitiful at his desk, worse than he'd seen him before. And he'd seen Morse with bullet holes in him. "I don't know if it's my place to say, but-"

Jakes barged through the door, cigarette in one hand and his coat draped over the other, barely taking a moment to greet Strange before turning to Thursday. "Wotcha, Strange. Should I be concerned that Morse just stormed past me towards the bathroom looking like death?"

***

The cool porcelain of the toilet against his face wasn't something he was sure he could give up. Remaining locked in here for the rest of the day was far too appealing. He hadn't thrown up yet, but he was fairly sure he would eventually. Why not just stay by the toilet?

The headache had let up somewhat, but he felt both helplessly hot and cold at the same time. He'd thought it was just a cough, at first, but over the course of the morning his health had taken a turn for the worse. The tile floor tilted in his vision, and he clutched the toilet bowl desperately, lightheaded. Only when the dizziness abated some did he try to get to his feet.

He spent the walk back to his desk in a daze, so much so that he didn't even realize what amounted to a small committee had convened in Thursday's office. He didn't notice four pairs of concerned eyes on him, not even as he slumped over his desk, pain written all over his face, or when his shaky hands fumbled with the typewriter keys.

Trewlove turned back from peering out Thursday’s window at the desks, one of which a half-lucid Morse occupied. "He's obviously run himself down. What're we going to do about it?" 

"Send him home early," Thursday stated.

Jakes scoffed. "What, to his alcohol? Good lot that'd do him."

Strange shrugged. "What else could we do? Where else would he go besides his flat?"

Their gazes shifted back to Morse, who looked about asleep on his typewriter. Thursday frowned, briefly, before his brow smoothed. "I've an idea. But he's not going to like it."

"Then we won't let him know it's coming," Trewlove responded matter-of-factly.

***

"Morse. Morse." There was a hand on his shoulder, its warmth burning through his jacket. "Oi. Morse. Up and at 'em."

"Wasn't sleeping," Morse replied, biting back a yawn so hard tears welled briefly in his eyes. "Why, what is it?"

"A stabbing. Some bloke out by Wittenham Clumps, Dorchester." Jakes merely looked down at him with an eyebrow raised. "Well? Come on. I'll drive."

Morse didn't bother to protest, shrugging on his coat and following Jakes on unsteady feet. He was glad Jakes had offered to drive, because he didn't know if he could handle either driving all the way to Dorchester or having to explain why he couldn't.

Thursday, Strange, and Trewlove watched them leave, Jakes striding purposefully with Morse trailing him like a disoriented duckling. "I realize we are all concerned about our constable, with reason, but it  _ is  _ still working hours, you three." Bright gave them an appraising look. "Whatever plot you’ve concocted can wait, mm?"

"Sorry, sir," Strange replied, and he and Trewlove dispersed, reprimanded. 

Bright turned to Thursday, eyes shrewd. "See that he's taken care of, yes?"

Thursday nodded. "Of course, sir."

"Right," the older man muttered to himself. "Carry on."

***

To say the car ride made Morse drowsy was an understatement.

Jakes glanced over at the younger detective every few minutes, slightly amused at the frequency with which Morse's chin would drop to his chest before he jolted back to awareness. Jakes'd been murmuring details about the 'case' initially to not tip Morse off to their...ruse, as it were, but after the third time he'd woken because he couldn't hear Jakes's voice, Jakes had just kept up a constant stream of details. It was testament to how badly Morse was that he didn't recognize the details were taken directly from one of the nick's cold cases.

The detective sergeant drove for a few minutes more, attention drifting to the grass and sky outside, before finally turning back towards Oxford proper once Morse's breathing slowed and most of the stress on his face had given way to the (relative) peace of slumber. The drive to the Thursdays' wasn't but five minutes more, Morse only turning restlessly once, mumbling under his breath. Jakes hummed quietly, reaching a hand to carefully smooth down his hair. The way Morse settled under the touch was reassuring, but the heat radiating off his brow definitely wasn't.

"Hold on," Jakes muttered. "Almost there. Sorry for this, by the way. I don't imagine you'll be set free from bed for a while yet." He received a soft snore in response. 

The drive was more than enough to do Morse in, the motion of the car combined with what was probably a sleepless night making him almost completely unresponsive. He continued his best impression of a coma patient even as Jakes pulled up to the Thursdays' curb, eyes squinting against the glare of the late afternoon sunshine on his windscreen. On the step waited the old man and Mrs. Thursday. He raised a hand in greeting, putting the car in park and quietly opening the door.

"Suppose that's all for me," Jakes spoke quietly as Thursday moved to open Morse's door. "Need help getting him inside?"

Thursday shook his head. "You best run back to the nick, hold down the fort." Morse was pliant, eyes barely half-open as Thursday roused him enough to get him out of the car and on his feet. The younger man stumbled against Thursday, who winced sympathetically at the sound of his wheezing. "I imagine a few days of rest'll clear that cough." Thursday leveled him with a stern look. "You rest, too. We can't have this spreading, can we?"

Jakes agreed with him wholeheartedly, grimacing. "No, sir." He shut the door quietly behind him, then was off and halfway down the street by the time Thursday had Morse a little more stable on his own legs.

"You're a mess," Thursday grumbled to his bagman. Morse’s reply might’ve been in English, for all the good that did. “Straight to bed with you.”

Win waited by the door, fretting, as Thursday got him up the steps. “Needs a good, solid meal, that’s what. And a cuppa.” She held open the door. Morse was a deadweight, feet stepping awkwardly, and Thursday barely managed to keep a hold of him when Morse tripped on the doorstep.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry,” Thursday said gruffly. Morse didn’t make any indication he’d heard, head nodding towards Thursday’s shoulder. Win closed the door behind them, ushering them towards the guest room, pressing a hand to Morse’s forehead briefly and wincing sympathetically before shuffling off to arrange whatever fussing she felt was necessary. 

Thursday set the practically-sleeping young man on the edge of the bed, letting him go only for Morse to immediately slump sideways onto the pillows. He’d half a mind to insist the boy sit upright, perhaps get out of his dress shirt and slacks, but Morse seemed so soundly asleep that he didn’t have the heart to disturb him. Morse didn’t rouse at all when Thursday pulled his legs up properly on the bed or removed his shoes, merely clung to the pillow under his head with a weak fist.

Thursday stepped back out into the hall to find Win about to head in, a damp cloth in one hand and some light clothing draped over the other arm. He recognized it as some of Sam’s old summer clothing, not fit for spring temperatures but perfect for keeping what appeared to be a nasty fever from rising any higher. “You let me take care of him for a bit. D’you need to go on back to work?”

He glanced at the clock on the wall regretfully; yes, he did indeed, but the idea of going back to work only to slough through paperwork and worry about his ill constable wasn’t appealing. “Just for a few hours, pet.” Maybe it’d be easier to get Morse to submit to some care if it was just him and Win, anyways. The lad was too stubborn for his own good, but there was no resisting his Win.

She patted his shoulder, the look in her eyes telling him she’d already deduced all that and more. “Don’t you fret, now. I’ll fix him up.” He let himself be ushered out the door, armed with his hat and coat, and the door closed gently behind him. He stood in the feeble sunlight for a moment, thoughtful, before making his way towards the sidewalk. The fresh air and the exercise would do him well, and it was on that good note he left the house behind.

***

In the few minutes he’d been unattended, Morse had wound himself up in the blankets so thoroughly only his sandy curls were visible. She tsked, gently easing the smothering fabric from his grip. Morse’s eyes fluttered open briefly, glazed and uncomprehending, so she shushed him gently. “Come on. Let’s get you changed.” He didn’t object even as she guided him back into a sitting position, nor did he resist as she unbuttoned his dress shirt and pulled Sam’s old, loose shirt over his tank top. Getting him to kick off his slacks was even easier, and he was eager enough to return to the safety of his blankets.

He sighed, softly, warm fingers finding her wrist. There wasn’t any substance to his feverish mumbles, but she hummed understandingly nonetheless. “I know, dear. Just settle now.” She situated the cloth on his forehead, concern bleeding through in the gentleness of her movements. Even from the first time the young man had stepped into their home, all awkward gestures and quiet words, he’d shone with a vulnerability that made her heart ache. He just needed a place to put his head down for a bit, she decided. No one had ever done worse by some mothering, and she was particularly skilled in that area.

Her hand drifted from the cloth to cup his face. He instantly leaned towards the touch, tilting his head so his breath puffed warm on her wrist, eager like a child. She resisted the urge to gather him up into a firm hug like she’d done any time her young ones needed to feel safe, needed to have that comfort, an urge she’d felt before, but like usual restrained herself to smaller gestures. He’d always seemed to fit so easily into their morning routine, and at dinners, and she knew Fred considered him akin to family at this point - they all did, honestly - but the hesitance with which Morse let himself reach out with any sort of vulnerability was written all over his face. It was a boundary she knew to respect. Morse had seen too much in his short life, dealt with too many people quick to use and abandon him, and if it took slow, reserved interactions despite the instant connection the young man had with each of them, then so be it.

Seeing him nestled safely in one of their beds had a calming effect on Win just by itself. She ran her thumb along his cheekbone once more, light as can be, before withdrawing, closing the door behind her. She’d let him sleep for at least a few hours. Besides, there was still her knitting sitting forgotten on the kitchen table.

***

She startled when a rough voice called out from down the hall, almost dropping a stitch. The shouting was replaced by softer, keening cries, and she left her needles behind to walk quickly down to where the guest room was, cracking open the door. “Morse?” She ventured quietly, squinting in the dimness of the room.

He’d cast aside the blankets, leaving them knotted on the floor, and was sitting up in bed, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. “Shh, it’s alright,” she murmured, letting go of the doorknob to rub at his shoulder and draw him closer to her. He relaxed slightly, muscles losing some of their tension, but that didn’t stop the tears welling in the corners of his eyes. 

He mumbled wildly, eyes flickering, fingers clumsy. “Cold,” he bit out, voice shaking, and she realized he was shivering despite the burning heat of his skin.

“It’s your fever, Morse,” she replied, but there was no understanding in his eyes. “You just have to wait it out. There you go,” she encouraged as he relaxed more, eyes slipping back shut. She eased him back down onto the pillows, careful to draw up a lighter sheet about his shoulders but leave the thicker blanket on the floor. 

When she left the room again, Fred was hanging up his coat and hat. She shushed him quietly. “I just have him back asleep, now,” she explained. “Still has a fever, poor thing.”

He nodded, following her back to the kitchen. “I expect he’ll be sleeping for the next few days,” he replied, and she was inclined to agree. Last time they’d had a bad fever in the house was with Joan, a few years ago, and she’d slept the good part of a week away before being up and about. She poured him a cup of tea as he sat at the table, looking fairly exhausted.

“Long day?” she inquired. He nodded, sipping his tea.

“Always is.” And there was nothing more to say. An unfamiliar sort of lull had fallen over the house, one she knew wouldn’t dissipate until Morse was better and there was no more cause for worry. She patted Fred’s hand reassuringly.

“Not much keeps that boy down, you know that,” Win consoled. “Once the fever’s gone and he’s gotten a solid meal, he’ll be right as rain.”

Fred smiled, enclosing his hands around one of hers, and she laid her free hand on top of his. “We’ll do him good,” he promised, and she believed him. They’d done it twice before, from scratch. All this one needed was a nudge in the right direction.

And when Morse stumbled into the kitchen four hours later, still feverish but with a renewed clarity in those big blue eyes, and most of the trembling in his hands gone, she could do nothing but smile in satisfaction and urge him towards the table. She hadn’t cooked dinner only for it to go to waste, after all.

(Over the next few days, as more than one stray detective or police constable turned up at their doorstep, asking after Morse, Win only felt more fond. It seemed he’d wormed his way into not just her and Fred’s hearts, and the thought of that brought a smile to her face.)


End file.
